


The Giving Up Game

by siriuslyyellow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Episode: s01e22 All Hell Breaks Loose Part 2, Explicit Language, M/M, Pre-Slash, Subtext, Torture, Violence, Wincest - Freeform, Written in 2008
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-05
Updated: 2012-04-05
Packaged: 2017-11-03 00:55:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/375276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriuslyyellow/pseuds/siriuslyyellow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What was there that Dean wouldn’t give up for Sam?</p>
<p>Challenge: Dean, dirt, fake ID, window blinds, "I’m telling you, this is a great idea."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Giving Up Game

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kowaiyoukai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kowaiyoukai/gifts).



> Originally posted on the LJ community spn_monthlyfic.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

At the time, Dean Winchester hadn’t realized a chocolate chip cookie would be his downfall.

But that’s not exactly accurate. It was the way Sammy had reached out, his baby hands still so small and cute, that had done Dean in. Sure, Dean had been looking forward to eating his cookie all day, but when Sammy reached out like that, how could he say no? So he did what any loving older brother would do. He let Sammy take the cookie right out of his hands.

In retrospect, it was probably Sammy’s brilliant smile that forced Dean into letting it go.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It really had to be done. There were just too many uncertainties about Sam now that Dean had brought him back. Was he a demon? Was he not a demon? What exactly had come back with Sam? Had anything come back with Sam at all, or was it all Yellow-Eyes playing head games with them as usual?

Basically, Dean thought it was all a bunch of fucking bullshit. And really, why the hell did he have to worry about it? You’d think that if you sold your soul for someone, they would be perfectly normal when they came back. Well, as normal as a gangly geekboy could be, anyhow. But no, Dean had to worry about the fucking details. Which was complete and utter crap. Really, it was his _soul_! You’d think that would be enough to secure a safe and healthy Sammy.

But apparently it wasn’t. This was becoming clearer to Dean the more time progressed, and he decided to take a more hands-on approach with the whole rescuing Sam business.

So he made a few calls and did some research without Sam’s knowledge. The whole thing took way too fucking long. Days passed, then weeks, then months. Dean didn’t want to leave Sam alone without knowing that he’d be okay, but it started to look like he’d have no choice. His deadline of one year was getting closer and closer, and no leads were coming up.

Finally, _finally_ , Bobby found a ritual that might work. Dean nodded as Bobby gave him the details, pretending to care about the background of the damn thing even though he was just relieved someone had actually found something. He wasn’t paying attention to where the ritual came from, who made it, or any of that other shit, but he was all ears when Bobby told him what it could do.

“Are you sure?” Dean looked Bobby hard in the eyes. “Are you sure this thing can help Sam?”

Bobby shrugged. “Dean, like I’ve been saying for the past hour and a half, I don’t know. This thing’s older than the devil, and less reliable. But it’s all we’ve got.”

Dean smiled like he had just won the lottery.

“Dean,” Bobby said in a warning tone, “Remember, if you tell Sam about it, the ritual will start. So don’t tell him unless you’re sure you wanna go through with it. _And_ remember, it might not work. It’s not a sure thing. If you boys get it wrong…”

Waving a hand to dismiss the thought, he replied, “Don’t worry, Bobby. We’ve done things like this before. I got this.”

Bobby tried again to warn Dean, who again ignored the advice in favor of excitement. This was it. Dean knew it. He knew it would work. He heaved a sigh of relief, thanked Bobby, and left.

It was time to tell Sam, and start the ritual.

He went back to their motel room and jammed the key in the door, too excited to tell Sam the good news to wait for it to unlock, and so he slammed his body into the door accidentally. “Fuck,” he said, and fiddled with the lock some more. Why wouldn’t this damn thing open already? He heard noise from the other side, then the door was open and he almost fell on top of Sam.

“Dean, what’s going on?” Sam looked curious and amused as Dean pushed past him into the room. “Why are you fighting with the door?”

“It started it,” Dean scoffed. Then, seriously, “Sammy, we’ve gotta talk.”

Sam almost tripped over the bed. “Excuse me?”

And then Dean rushed into a lengthy explanation about what he’d been up to, and what he just learned. He left out the part about how telling Sam made the ritual begin, just in case Sam didn’t take a liking to the plan. Sam sat down about five minutes in, and began to look paler and paler as Dean went on. After fifteen minutes of this, Sam stopped Dean.

“Dean, how could you do all this without talking to me about it first?”

“You know I hate talking.”

Sam rolled his eyes. Dean shrugged in response.

“Besides,” Dean grinned, “what’s the problem? Isn’t this perfect?”

Dean’s smile faded as he took in Sam’s weary expression.

“No,” Sam answered, “it’s nowhere near perfect. It’s way too dangerous. Were you even listening to what Bobby told you about it?”

“Of course I was lis- wait a minute. How do you know it’s dangerous?” Dean specifically left that part out when he was telling Sam the plan so he wouldn’t be put off by the idea.

Sam rolled his eyes, “Don’t you think I’ve been concerned about this too, Dean? God, use your brain once in a while.” Dean huffed, but Sam ignored him and continued, “I’ve done research on my own and all the rituals I found were way too risky. I didn’t find this one, but they’re all the same. Lots of blood, lots of sacrifice… We don’t want to go down that road, Dean.”

Dean raised his eyebrow at Sam, looking at his younger brother as if he were a mental patient. “Well, you didn’t find this one, right?” At Sam’s exasperated look, Dean pressed on, “I’m telling you, this is a great idea.”

“ _I’m_ telling _you_ , it’s a horrible idea,” Sam shook his head, “They’re all the same. We’re not doing it.”

“Oh yes, we are.”

“Oh no, we’re not.”

“Are too.”

“Are not.”

“Are too.”

“Oh my God, could you be anymore prepubescent?”

“Look who’s talking.”

Sam gave his older brother a serious look. “No, Dean.”

Well, it didn’t really matter what Sam thought since the ritual was definitely going to happen. Dean hung his shoulders and sighed, hoping to look dejected. He lowered his head and ran a hand through his hair. “Now what?”

Dean looked back up just as Sam’s face contorted strangely, as if he was having a vision. Dean was at his brother’s side in an instant, grabbing a hold of his shoulders.

“Sammy? Sam!”

But then Sam was back to normal. It had ended just as quickly as it had begun, and Dean wasn’t sure that he had seen anything at all.

He asked, still concerned, “You okay?”

Sam shook his head and blinked. Then, “Uh, it’s nothing.”

Dean paused, unconvinced. “… You sure?”

Sam blinked again, and then smiled at Dean, “Yeah. Anyway, let’s get going. It’s check-out time.” He paused to throw Dean his duffel. “Come on, let’s head south. I hear there’s a hunt in New Mexico.”

They collected their things and left the motel, Dean hopping into the driver’s seat swiftly. Sam hopped in right after him, and the look on his face told Dean that the topic was closed for discussion. Dean sighed, started up the Impala, and as the tires kicked up dirt, they drove away, towards New Mexico.

Dean spent the drive thinking about his exchange with Sam. The ritual was happening, that he knew for sure. But did it start yet? Would there be some sort of sign? What if it ended badly, or didn’t work at all? What other options did he have? And what was up with Sam’s weird non-vision? Hadn’t Sam stopped getting visions a while ago? Was it actually a vision, and Sam just didn’t tell him? But no, Sam wouldn’t do that. The facts kept circling around Dean’s head, over and over. He was out of ideas, and time was passing too quickly. Dean didn’t know what more he could do, and he was getting a headache from over-thinking. He tried to ignore it, but within an hour it was a full-on migraine. He never got migraines. It must be from the stress.

“Hey Sammy, you wanna drive for a while? My head’s killing me.” Dean asked, throwing a look over at Sam, who had spent the majority of the ride quietly doing a crossword.

It was an odd request, Dean knew, and Sam knew it too. “You sure?”

He nodded, and the motion hurt. Pulling the car over, they switched seats without a fuss, then continued down the road they were headed. Dean fell asleep in a few miles, trying not to look at Sam out of the corner of his eye.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Or maybe it was the action figure.

It had been in a drug store, and Sammy wasn’t paying attention, still a curious toddler at the time. He didn’t even realize John had bought Dean a toy until they got back to the hotel. But once Sammy saw that action figure, complete with flying rubber disc action, he just had to have it. So Dean had bitten his tongue and given it to Sammy.

Dean had really wanted it, too.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

When Dean woke up, it was dark, and they weren’t on the same road anymore. He knew they had to change highways, but he didn’t think it was so quickly, unless he had been asleep for longer than he intended. But it was quite possible that he had slept for a few hours instead of one or two, because his headache was gone, and Dean was thankful for it.

He looked at Sam, who was looking at a map, confused.

“Sam?”

Sam looked startled and said, “Dean! God, you scared me. You’re awake. How do you feel?”

Dean nodded, and it didn’t hurt this time, “Good, thanks. Way better. Sorry for falling asleep for so long.”

“Not a problem,” Sam replied, and then went back to the map.

“Where are we?” Dean asked, worry crossing his features.

Sam paused. “Ummmm…”

Dean looked horrified. “What do you mean ‘um’?”

“Well, there was a detour back there, but it was dark and I couldn’t see it clearly and so I just took the next turn, which was completely wrong, and so I don’t really know.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “Why the fuck didn’t you wake me up?”

“You needed rest,” Sam stated, as if it was obvious.

Dean rolled his eyes, “Yes, well, thank you. But next time, just wake my ass up! Fuck, gimme that!”

He grabbed the map out of Sam’s hands and they tried to figure out where they were. After a few minutes, Dean gave up.

“It’s late, you’re tired, I could use some more sleep, let’s just get to the closest motel and figure this shit out in the morning.”

Sam paused and bit his lip.

Dean’s eyes widened, “What?”

“I haven’t exactly seen civilization for about, oh,” Sam cleared his throat awkwardly, “a hundred miles or so.”

An incredulous sound escaped Dean’s mouth. “Then why the hell didn’t you stop the car?”

Sam was quiet, repentant, and offered no explanation.

Dean put his hand on his forehead and took a deep breath. “It’s fine. Let’s just stop at the next place we see, alright? Get out, I’m driving.”

They switched again, and in an hour Dean found himself wishing he had turned back around and gone the other way. But it was too late now. Maybe they’d just sleep in the Impala tonight.

“Hey, look,” Sam pointed out a house in the distance. “Let’s go ask them if we can crash.”

“Dude,” Dean said, incredulous, “have you completely not seen “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre”?”

Rolling his eyes at Dean, Sam replied, “Not every hick eats people, Dean.”

Dean cocked an eyebrow at Sam and pointed out, “Well, we’ve already met a whole creepy family that did.”

Sam looked at him with disbelief. “Are you afraid or something?”

“No,” Dean answered, too quickly, “As if. Nothing scares me.” He pulled into the house’s driveway and parked the Impala, just to prove a point.

Sam was out of the car before Dean could say another word about it. So, really, Dean had no choice but to get out, too. He grabbed his shotgun from under the driver’s seat and took a deep breath. This would be fine. There would be no problems. What were the chances that they would run into a second Bender family? Those were the sort of thoughts Dean had as he walked around the perimeter of the place with Sam, checking things out.

It was an old house, obviously abandoned. The weeds were so overgrown that Dean had half a mind to go grab his machete just to do a little yard work so they could walk more comfortably around. The roof had some holes and patches, and the windows had blinds and curtains falling down. It looked like rust covered the siding, but that might have actually just been the original paint color, Dean couldn’t tell. The porch was rickety, and when Dean walked up the stairs to knock, just to make sure it actually _was_ abandoned, his foot fell right through one of the steps.

“Oh, fucking hell,” Dean cursed, yanking his foot out of the hole.

“Jeez,” Sam muttered, carefully following Dean up the steps. “You’d think someone would’ve torn this old place down by now.”

Dean knocked, then looked over at Sam and replied, “Apparently they’d rather see it fall down on its own.”

Sam went, “Huh,” and waited with Dean for someone to answer the door.

Of course, no one came. After knocking two more times, shouting hello, and waiting for five minutes, Sam sighed.

Looking pointedly at his brother, Sam said, “No one’s here, Dean.”

“Yeah… Maybe we should just go,” Dean added, hopefully.

Sam looked at him like he was crazy.

Dean looked back. “What?”

Rolling his eyes, Sam explained as if he was talking to someone unintelligent, “Besides the fact that we haven’t seen a motel in hours, it’s not like we have a never-ending supply of cash, you know. Let’s just stay here tonight. It’s cheaper, and we’re both exhausted. We can figure things out in the morning.”

Dean repeated Sam, mocking him, “‘Let’s just stay here tonight. It’s cheaper, and we’re both exhausted.’” Sam’s shoulders deflated and he looked like he wanted to strangle Dean. But Dean ignored him and went on, “Come _on_ , Sammy! Look at this place! It’s a freaking nightmare! We might die just by standing on the stupid porch. It already tried to eat my foot.”

Sam, in turn, mocked Dean, “‘It already tried to eat my foot.’ Don’t be such a sissy. Let’s just go in.”

Sam reached for the door handle, but it was locked. He tried to smash it in, but it wouldn’t budge.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Figures the only decent part of this house is the stupid door.” He went for his lockpick, but it wasn’t there. “What? Where the hell’d my kit go?”

“You probably left it in the car,” Sam replied hastily.

Sam started to take out his instead, but after Sam making fun of him all night, Dean felt the need to reassert his manliness, so he took out an old and relatively useless fake ID and started to work on the lock with it. After a few seconds, Dean jimmied the lock and the door loudly squeaked open.

He snorted. “At least we’ll know if something’s coming.”

Sam nodded in agreement and walked in ahead of Dean, who followed immediately after. The house was just as musty on the inside as the out, lined with filth and debris. They both gawked at the place, Dean raising an eyebrow at Sam, and Sam just shrugging and walking in. After looking around for five minutes, they knew the layout of the house by heart. It was a small place, not at all as big inside as it looks from the outside. Living room, kitchen, bedroom, bathroom, second bedroom, pantry, and two closets. It wasn’t much, but Dean felt his eyes beginning to close, and he knew it would be okay for one night. They had dealt with worse than this, that was for damn sure.

“I call this bedroom. It’s got less mold on the bedspread,” Dean declared.

Sam whined, “That’s not fair, I-“

But Dean cut him off, “Hey, this was your idea, Sammy. Take it or leave it.”

And there wasn’t much Sam could say to that, since he did get what he wanted and all, so instead he grunted and made for his allotted room. After putting their duffels down and checking and double-checking the house to make sure it was safe, they said good night to each other and went to their respective rooms.

Dean was sure if he wasn’t about ready to fall over he would have not been able to sleep, but his body was taking over, and before he knew it he was asleep.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It could have been the board game.

He and Sammy had been young, barely out of elementary school. They had been fighting over some silly game their father had brought home. Dean had played it before and knew the rules. Sammy had just been doing whatever he wanted to do. Dean had wanted to hit him, tell him to grow the fuck up and act like a man, but he had known that it was Sammy, and he could never really hurt him, so instead he had sucked it up and let Sammy win. Dean had been miffed, but he had thought that he shouldn’t be.

It was just a game, after all.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Searing hot pain woke Dean up, and he was shocked into a silent scream. Sam was standing over him, but it wasn’t Sam. Dean jolted up, and Sam’s arms pushed him back down, causing Dean to grunt gruffly. He looked down, and there was blood everywhere. Dean kicked Sam away, and reached to his stomach to find two lockpicks, his and Sam’s, implanted in his abdomen. Dean pulled them out and threw them across the room, and then Sam was next to him again, this time with a knife.

“Sam, God, what the fuck?”

But Sam only smirked and pushed Dean down onto the bed once more. Then he tried to stab Dean, and Dean tried to get away. It was hard. Sam was bigger than he was, and quicker. When he managed to roll off of the bed, Sam fell with him and ended up underneath him. Dean moved to jump off of his brother, but not before Sam cut his right arm open.

Dean hissed and fell back, towards the door. He looked at Sam with hurt and betrayal in his eyes.

Sam laughed as if Dean was missing something incredibly funny, “Did you think I was just going to _let_ you do that ritual to get rid of me?”

Dean paled.

“Honestly, Dean. Don’t you pay attention to the rules of rituals at all? When you told me about it, you were offering me a chance to defend myself.”

“But, I,” Dean stammered, confused, “I didn’t realize…”

Sam bared his teeth, and it was an expression Dean has seen before many times- on himself. It was the face of a hunter staking his prey. “That doesn’t mean I don’t get the chance.”

Dean started to reply, but Sam cut him off, grinned wickedly, and rolled his tongue around every word, “Really, did you think I _randomly_ found out about a hunt? At the exact second we were leaving town? Did you think I _seriously_ got lost? When it’s never happened before? Did you think you _actually_ lost your lockpick? When you never misplace anything? Dean… You’re too _easy_. Come on, now, at least make _this_ part fun.”

And Dean wanted to wake up. He was still dreaming, that had to be it. But no, the blood on his hands, staining his shirt, was too real. The way his vision was blurred from sleep was too real. The way Sam was looking at him like he wanted to kill him was too real.

“Sammy, this- this isn’t you.”

But Sam only laughed, then replied quickly, seriously, “Enough talking,” and lunged again for Dean.

It wasn’t as if Dean was a novice at this sort of thing. He ran for his shotgun, darting past Sam’s grasp. Then Sam was chasing him out into the living room, and Dean knew the layout of this house, so he knew exactly when to shoot a clip full of salt-rock shells into Sam so that he fell out of a window, shattering the glass as he landed outside with a thud.

Sam looks dazed, and Dean has enough time to grab salt from the kitchen and throw it over the windows and door before his brother regains himself.

Fuck. How did this all get so very fucked up so very quickly? If Dean had only listened, had only paid some fucking attention to Bobby, he would have known how dangerous this would be. But no, Dean had been too busy trying to make things right to pay attention to the big, glaring details, as usual. He could have kicked himself. He didn’t even realize that Sam was leading him here, to this very place, just so that he could trap him into a corner.

When was the last time Dean talked to the real Sam? His Sam, not this demonic son of a bitch that was taking over his body and soul. According to this Sam, he could have been in control since the moment Dean mentioned the ritual. So the last time Dean saw Sam, the real Sam, was when he almost fell on top of him trying to get into the motel?

That wasn’t exactly the kind of exchange Dean was picturing for their final goodbye.

But Dean pushed that thought immediately out of his head. He didn’t want to think about that, he couldn’t think about it, and he wouldn’t. He refused to.

Instead, he hobbled over to the nearest window, clutching his stomach along the way. Dean pushed aside the broken window blinds to peer out of them, looking for Sam. And there he was, standing right outside, not even ten feet away, staring at Dean. He looked like he had pulled himself together, which relieved Dean. And then he felt stupid for being relieved. Sam was trying to kill him. He should definitely not be glad that he was okay.

But Sam was still his brother, and Dean would never be able to really hurt him. Besides, he was still hopeful that the real Sam would wake up and kick this bastard out.

They stood there for a few minutes, staring at each other. They didn’t speak, and they didn’t move. Dean was starting to feel his blood loss affecting his senses. He was getting dizzy, but no, he wouldn’t go down just yet. There was a window sill right there, and Dean crouched beneath it for cover.

And then he waited.

He didn’t know how long he sat hunched under the window sill, but it had to have been at least ten minutes now. His legs were burning, ankles and shins tingly from inactivity. There were two pretty nasty-looking gashes on his stomach, and one more on his right arm. Holding his gun was a chore now, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to fight for much longer. If this continued the way it was going, things were going to start getting very bad very quickly.

“Dean,” a voice as familiar as his own shouted out to him from outside, “how long are we going to play this game?”

He laughed humorlessly and shouted back, “As long as we have to, little brother.”

And then there was more silence. It stretched on and on, until Dean’s ears were attuned to the sound of Sam’s breathing outside. That was good. It meant Sam was still alive.

Dean finally decided to break the silence and shouted out, “You know I can’t leave you like this, Sammy.”

Sam shouted cockily back, “You couldn’t kill me before! What makes you think you could now?”

“ _Killing?_ Who said anything about killing?” Dean shook his head, a motion Sam couldn’t see, then shouted back, much braver than he felt, “You gotta get your ears checked, Sam. I said I couldn’t _leave_ you.”

And he meant it. Sam was his brother, his partner, his best friend, the most important person in his life, and the person he cared about the most out of everyone he knew. He had given up his childhood so Sam could have a childhood. He had given up his freedom so Sam could have freedom. He had given up his soul so Sam could have a soul.

What was there that Dean wouldn’t give up for Sam?

Nothing, there was nothing. And he knew it. He had given everything he could. The only thing left was his life. As Dean rearranged himself underneath the window to wait for Sam’s next move, he thought that really wasn’t that much to ask for. At least, not if it was Sam who was asking.

Sam didn’t speak again as the time ticked slowly by. Dean lost track of it. He could barely keep a hold on his gun. The effects of his blood loss were catching up quick. His mind began to wander, and he knew he would be fucked. How could he fight like this? How could he save Sam? He needed to think of some way to fix things, and fast. But how could he, in his current condition? He tried to lift his gun. It tilted slightly. Damn it. What could he do now?

Dean continued to sit there, waiting. He wasn’t sure exactly when Sam came up behind him. He didn’t hear his brother approach. He _was_ sure that he was going to lose consciousness in about a minute. He had held out for too long, and he couldn’t any longer. Falling backwards, he landed on top of Sam, who wrapped one hand around Dean’s stomach and the other around his right arm. Sam pressed his fingers into Dean’s wounds, and Dean almost couldn’t feel the pain.

He knew that was a bad sign.

“Give up yet?” Sam whispered into Dean’s ear, clearly enjoying himself.

And Dean had already decided that he would. He would be willing to give up anything, even his life, if that was what it took for Sam to be human again. It wouldn’t matter what he lost, as long as Sam was okay. Of course, he couldn’t _tell_ that to Sam. Dean would keep up his mask of bravado for as long as he could. It was what he did best.

Dean somehow managed a grin. “Come on, little brother. You know me better than that.”

He tried to lift his shotgun, but Sam twisted it out of his hands.

Sam’s mouth curved upward in a smile that would frighten most people. To Dean, it seemed bittersweet. “Yeah, Dean, I do.”

The butt of the gun hit Dean full in the face, and he finally blacked out.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It could also have been the hard-boiled eggs.

Sammy had been old enough to complain, but not old enough to do anything about it. Dean had been getting really fed up with Sammy’s constant questions. So when Sammy had asked if he could have Dean’s eggs instead of his own cereal, Dean had said yes without really hearing the question. Then he had sighed, annoyed, and handed them over. Dean had eaten the cereal he didn’t like that they had bought because Sammy had wanted it while Sammy had eaten the eggs. Sammy hadn’t even liked hard-boiled eggs.

Dean had started to notice a pattern.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Drifting in and out of consciousness, Dean kept seeing Sam. Sam leering over him, wielding a pair of pliers. Sam arguing with himself, nursing a wound on his leg. Sam crying next to him, begging him to wake up.

Time had been escaping Dean all day, and the night was no exception. He still had no concept of how much of it was passing. Minutes, hours, maybe even days. He couldn’t be sure.

When he finally came to, Sam was lying in a heap in the corner.

He knew it was Sam because there was no one else around. If it hadn’t been for that, he wouldn’t have been so sure. Sam’s body looked wrong. Dean wasn’t sure exactly what was twisted at an impossible angle, but at least two of Sam’s joints definitely were, if not more.

Dean tried to get up, but found himself duct taped to the chair he was in. His legs, ankles, arms, wrist, and stomach were all somehow attached to it. He tried to call out to Sam, but his voice was hoarse and barely a whisper came out. Struggling to get free, he cursed audibly as the tape rubbed painfully against his stomach. He tried to wiggle his arms free, but that hurt even more, and he mumbled painfully, trying not to scream.

Sam’s head twitched at the sound.

Dean’s eyes flew wide. The worry that Sam was seriously injured outweighed the fear that Dean was seriously fucked, and so he called out, “Sam! Sam! Are you okay? Sammy!” His voice was still raw, but it was loud enough for Sam to respond to. Sam didn’t move.

When Dean tried to lift his arms again, and again winced from the pain in his right, he looked down at it and grimaced at the sight. Covered in blood and dirt, the skin on his arm was torn open. Flesh was hanging off of it, dangling by a tendon. Dean bit down hard on his lips as he heard a sickening snap, then thud, and then the flesh was splattered on the floor. He caught a glimpse of bone before he turned away, repelled by the sight.

Dean grimaced and bit hard on his lip, trying to stay awake, but wishing he would pass out again.

All his struggling must have brought Sam around, because his brother was slowly standing, wobbling a little. Sam’s nose was clearly broken, his back had a gash a foot long running down it, and there was a deep cut across his left thigh. He brought his hands up to his eyes to wipe the blood out of them.

Dean swallowed. “S- Sammy?”

Sam looked at Dean, blinked a few times, and his eyes widened with horror.

“Oh my God, Dean!” Sam began to head towards Dean, one arm outstretched in a silent plea. He stopped, hesitated, and lowered his arm.

“Sam?” Dean whispered, and hoped for reassurance. He couldn’t think of what to say. What could anyone say, at a time like this?

Doubt and then resolve flashed across Sam’s face, and that saved Dean from having to find an answer. Sam moved to Dean’s side as fast as he could, which took a lot longer than usual. He fell to his knees at the chair and began to undo Dean’s wrist bindings.

Sam didn’t meet his eyes. “Dean, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, oh my God, why didn’t you stop me?”

Sam flinched audibly every time his skin touched Dean’s. Dean chose to ignore it.

The older brother laughed, sarcastically, “I, uh, tried to stop you, Sammy. It didn’t exactly work out the way I pictured.”

Shaking his head, Sam replied, “You should have killed me.”

Dean felt his eyebrows fly up. “What?”

“You should have-”

“Yeah,” Dean cut him off, “I heard you. I was just wondering if you were a retard.”

Sam opened his mouth, then shut it. Dean tactfully chose to not go on.

Once the wrist tape was off, Sam began to remove the tape around Dean’s arms. It was a slow process. If Sam ripped it a little too fast, not only would Dean flinch and inhale a quick breath, but more of his skin would come off, too. Dean watched as Sam touched his arm with shaking fingers, tenderly working around his open wound.

When his right arm was finally free, Dean went to lift it, cursed, and put it back down to lean against the arm rest. Sam looked guilty and horrified. Dean looked away.

“Don’t be like that, Sammy,” Dean tried to sound reassuring, for both his and his brother’s sakes. “It’s not that bad, right?”

Sam didn’t reply, just went to work on Dean’s left wrist and arm. That was quicker, no real damage having been done. He did Dean’s legs and ankles next, saving his stomach for last.

His stomach was another difficult area. There was not one, but two gashes across it, and Sam, looking at the duct tape, muttered, “Fuck, I put this right through your cuts.” Then he clamped his mouth quickly shut.

Dean swallowed, still not looking at him. “It wasn’t you, Sam.”

Sam laughed humorlessly. “Yeah, right.”

“It _wasn’t_ ,” Dean insisted.

“Then,” Sam paused, and whispered, “why won’t you even look at me?”

Dean looked his brother directly in his eyes and stated matter-of-factly, “It wasn’t.”

Sam just shook his head a little and went to work on Dean’s stomach. It was tougher than either of them had thought it would be, and Sam had no choice but to pull off some of Dean’s skin when he removed the tape. Dean grit his teeth, and Sam looked away.

When the tape was finally off, Dean went to stand up. He almost fell, and Sam caught him.

Dean gasped, “Don’t! Your leg-”

“Quiet,” Sam hissed, “I’m better off than you are.”

Dean couldn’t argue with that, so he shut up and let Sam treat him like a girl by carrying him up the stairs and into the backseat of the Impala. Sam got in the driver’s seat and started her up, heading for the nearest hospital.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Then there had been that girl.

Dean didn’t remember her name, only her hair. It had been light brown, short, wavy, and reminded him of home. He had really liked her. Sammy had noticed. He had been a young teenager then, and had only just starting to be interested in girls. He had told Dean he liked her, too, and Dean had just smiled and backed off, had given Sammy his chance with her.

Dean still wasn’t sure if the smile he had given Sammy was real.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

First, the doctor gave Sam good news. His leg would be fine, completely normal, but there would be a scar. The same with his back. And his nose would heal normally with some time, too.

Then, the doctor gave Dean bad news. His stomach would heal up normally and be fine, but it would scar. That would have been okay by itself, but then Dean was told that he wouldn’t be able to use his right arm anymore.

Dean paused. Then he and Sam said simultaneously, “What?”

The doctor looked apologetic. “We’ve tried everything. We can’t reattach the tendons. Your bone was exposed and had a break in it. You won’t be able to move the arm at all, but you’re lucky we don’t have to amputate.”

Dean sat down. Lucky?

Sam looked horrified. The doctor continued, “We did what we could with its’ appearance, but it is a bit smaller now because of the removed flesh.” The doctor looked uncomfortable, cleared his throat, then went on, “It could be a lot worse. At least you still have your left, and we have programs available here to help you get used to being a lefty.”

Was he being serious?

“Doctor,” Sam interjected, “there’s nothing else we can do? No therapy? Surgery? … Nothing?”

The doctor shook his head, “I’m sorry.”

Sam and the doctor kept on talking, but Dean wasn’t listening to them anymore. He had just found out that he couldn’t write, eat, get dressed, or do any one of a thousand other things he relied on having his right arm to do. At least, not without someone else’s help.

Then a thought occurred to him, and he paled drastically. He couldn’t use a gun anymore. Even if he figured out how to be a lefty, he needed to use a shotgun to fire rock salt rounds. A shotgun generally required two hands, at least to load and cock it. How could he do it with only one hand? There was no way.

He wanted to die.

But the thought was immediately pushed to the back of his brain, replaced by, ‘ _Fuck that shit! I’ll find a way. No way am I giving up hunting… Fuck that!_ ’

Dean tried to make the motions of shooting a shotgun in the empty air.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The swapping hunting for studying incident could have been the reason, too.

Sammy had been a sophomore in high school. He had a big test coming up the next day, and John had refused to let Sammy study. There had been a hunt that he had needed help on, and Dean had been recovering from an injury, so Sammy had to go. Without waiting for Sammy to ask, Dean had stepped in and somehow convinced John to take him on the hunt instead of Sammy.

Sammy had never said thank you, but his smile had lit up the room.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

They left the hospital the next week, after the doctors were convinced that they would be able to go about their daily lives normally. Not that they knew what the Winchester brothers’ daily lives entailed, but still, it was good to be out on the road again.

Not that Dean could drive.

But he tried to complain as much as he could about it from the passenger seat, just to make Sam feel more at ease. Occasionally he saw Sam smile, or go to hit his good arm. Those only made Dean go at it more.

When they first stopped to eat, Sam ran over to open Dean’s door for him after seeing Dean struggling with it. After they ordered and got their food, Dean dropped his fork four times, yelling at Sam each time to stop asking if he needed any help, before getting his food to go.

He let Sam feed him in the car.

They got to their motel that night, and Dean reached over his body to pull the handle with his left hand and kick the door open with his foot before Sam could help. Sam grabbed Dean’s bags and carried them inside. Dean complained, but didn’t try to stop him.

Later, Dean cursed, ripping his shirt trying to get out of it. Sam came up behind him and Dean stiffened. Sam stopped.

Dean shook his head, explaining, “I’m not scared of you or anything like that, Sammy. It’s just… I can do it myself, you know?”

Sam nodded and went to sit down on his bed, turning on the T.V. Dean continued to fight with his shirt for five minutes before sighing and looking at Sam. Sam was looking at him.

Dean stood in front of him and looked awkwardly to the side, clearing his throat as he did so.

Sam nodded and stood up. He really was a lot taller than Dean, and Dean looked down further, feeling useless and inferior.

Sam chose to ignore Dean’s discomfort, which he was grateful for. Sam simply reached down to the edge of Dean’s button-down, and pulled it up over his head. They were both extremely aware of Dean’s arm then, seeing it in contrast with the other. His left looked completely normal, but his right was thinner and twisted wrong. The scar looked almost like a burn mark, it covered the area and left it looking raw.

Dean looked away from it, waiting for Sam to take off his undershirt, too. After a minute, Dean looked at Sam, who was looking at Dean’s arm. Dean looked at it, too, and saw Sam’s hand on it, his fingers tracing the scar.

Sam stopped, and looked at Dean. He asked hopefully, “Can you feel that?”

Dean shook his head, and shrugged it off with a joke, “Nah, but you might wanna wash your hand now. That thing looks disgusting.” He nodded at his own arm.

Sam sombered. “That’s not funny, Dean.” When Dean didn’t reply, he said softly, “I’m sorry.”

Dean shook his head. “No, Sam. Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine.”

His brother didn’t look convinced, but he pulled Dean’s undershirt off quickly and moved away before Dean could reassure him again.

After a couple of silent minutes, Sam said, “You know I’ll be here to help you, Dean.”

Dean looked at him. “Yeah, I know.”

“I mean,” Sam continued, quickly, “Unless you don’t want me around. Because I did that to you. But since it’s my fault, I should be here to help, right?”

Dean paused, then rolled his eyes and groaned, “God, you are _such_ a girl!”

Sam looked surprised, “Huh?”

“Dude.” Dean laid down on his bed, and said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, “First off, it’s not your fault, it wasn’t you, we went over this already, so shut the fuck up about it, all right?”

Sam was quiet, just kept looking at him.

“And _second_ ,” Dean continued, “what the fuck is that shit? So you _wouldn’t_ help me if you didn’t think it was your fault? That’s ass, man.”

Sam started, “No, that’s not wh-”

But Dean cut him off. “I know, I know. But jeez, Sam, I thought you were supposed to be smart.” He shook his head in mock disappointment. “My dreams and hopes for little Sammy’s future, gone away into the night. Oh, woe is m-”

A pillow hit him in the face.

“Fine, you made your point,” Sam huffed.

“Good,” Dean replied. “Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a while. It was good to know that Sam wasn’t going to bail on him, not that Dean thought he would, but it was still nice to hear him say it out loud.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” Sam said suddenly, going into the bathroom.

Dean nodded and flicked through the channels, waiting for Sam to get out. When he finally did, Sam asked him if he wanted to take one next.

“No, I’m cool. Thanks.” No way in hell was Dean having Sam help him in the shower. It was great and all that Sam was going to help him, but that was a bit much. He’d rather stink first.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It definitely hadn’t been the time it had meant the most to Dean.

Sammy had gotten into Stanford. He had wanted to go. He should go, Dean had known that. No matter how badly he had wanted Sammy to stay, Dean couldn’t ask him to. At that point, he had been used to giving up what he had wanted to make Sammy happy. So Dean had watched Sammy leave for Stanford, knowing that he had been giving up Sammy himself in the process.

It would have been too much to ask for had it been anyone else asking.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

In the morning, Dean learned how to brush his teeth with one hand. He figured out how to tie his shoes with one hand and his teeth. He put on his undershirt without getting help from Sam, too. After choosing a long-sleeve shirt, having Sam point out it was hot, and Dean saying he liked the fabric, Sam helped him button it up. But that wasn’t really that big a deal. Not really.

They started packing their things when Bobby called.

Dean looked at his cell phone and answered, “Hey Bobby, what’s up?”

“How’d the ritual go?” Bobby wanted to know.

Dean paused, looked at Sam, who was looking at him curiously, then looked away and said, “I don’t know. I wasn’t too sure how- _if_ -it worked.”

“I already told you.” Bobby sounded a bit exasperated, and then continued, “You have a stand-off with the person who you’re trying to purify.”

Dean paused, thinking back to last week. “Wait. What?”

Sam came over to him, and Dean held up one finger that was holding the phone to indicate he’d tell Sam in a minute.

Bobby sighed, “Don’t you listen when I talk?”

“No, not too much,” Dean admitted. “What’s this about a show-down?”

Sam’s eyes widened.

Bobby sounded annoyed, “I already told you all this, Dean. If you kids did the ritual, you would’ve been forced to face off against the demon inside of Sam. Then, Sam would need to fight the demon himself. Whoever won would take complete control.”

Dean’s jaw clenched, “Wait a sec. How do I know who won?”

Bobby replied matter-of-factly, “Throw some holy water on him. If it burns, the demon won. If nothing happens, he’s purified.”

“Hold on,” Dean said quickly, looking at Sam. “I’m gonna do it now.”

Sam’s eyes flew wide as he and Bobby said together, “What?”

Hurrying over to his duffel, Dean threw the phone down on the bed, and then rummaged around for a second before retrieving a bottle of holy water. He took a few shallow breaths, then screwed off the lid with his good hand and threw the contents on Sam.

Who looked surprised and pissed, but not burning.

Dean picked up his cell, repeated what Bobby told him to Sam, then told Bobby what had happened at the abandoned house. By the end of the story, all three were shocked into silence.

After a minute, Sam took Dean’s cell phone and said, “Bobby, it’s Sam. Thanks for all your help.” A pause. “Yeah, we’re okay.” Another pause. “Yeah, we will. Take care, Bobby. Thanks again. We’ll talk to you soon.” Sam hung up and gave the phone back to Dean.

Dean put it in his pocket and stared at Sam. Then, a huge grin broke out over his face.

Sam looked confused. “What are you grinning about?”

“Don’t you see, Sammy? We did it!” Dean’s smile lit up the room. “You don’t have to worry about whether or not you’re you anymore!”

The younger brother looked at the older as if he was crazy. “But, Dean, your arm…”

Dean raised an eyebrow and shrugged with his one good shoulder, “What _about_ my arm?”

How could he explain to Sam that giving his arm up was nothing compared to keeping him? It was just another thing on the laundry list of what he gave up for Sam, and Dean thought it wasn’t really that bad, considering how the ritual _could_ have gone. Dean could have lost his life, and really, he had been prepared for that, too. Just an arm seemed like a bargain for a one-hundred-percent-pure-Sam Sam. But there was no way he could say that out loud to Sam.

Dean looked as if he couldn’t put something into words for a few moments, trying to find a way to voice his relief before shrugging in defeat. Then he happily asked, his grin returning, “Isn’t it the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen in your life?”

He watched Sam look down at it, misshapen and ugly, and saw a sad smile appear on his face.

“Yeah.” Sam looked away from Dean, and hesitantly agreed, “Yeah, it is.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_fin._


End file.
